Welcome to the Hotel Populaire
by The Surrealist
Summary: Present Day Setting: All of the Phantom Characters work in an extremely ritzy hotel in New York City, except Erik, the mysterious guest that lives at the grand suite on the top floor. What do they work as? Read to find out.
1. Introduction

**Summary: Present Day Setting: All of the Phantom Characters work in an extremely ritzy hotel in New York City, except for Erik, the mysterious guest that lives at the grand suite on the top floor. What do they work as? Read to find out.**

**Warning: Since it is present day settings, the characters are made to have slight differences in their slang usage and accents.**

**Warning#2: Carlotta is definitely a bit OOC here.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the named brands and characters. I only own this storyline.**

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"Order up, Meg!" Raoul's tenor voice alerted the blonde, snapping her back to reality, as he slid a hot plate of delectable food toward her dazing form.

"Ugh, Chef, must I?" She grimaced at the plate of steaming Eggs Benedict. "I'm the fricken manager of this place, as well as the Banquet manager!" she moaned as Raoul simply shook his head at her, continuously jiggling the plate of eggs at her direction.

"Yes, Sir!" Meg gave a false salute towards the head chef, earning herself the fifth laugh from him that day, and then with expert grace, she brought the table its desired food.

--

"Hello, how may I help you?" Antoinette Giry cooed to the bunch of tourists who had just entered through the two, golden doors into the Hotel, the perfect concierge.

"Yes, ma'am, we'd like two rooms with two twin beds each." The seemingly oldest male from the group, presumably the father, uttered, somewhat flustered. The male was wearing a luxurious suit and tie, with matching shoes. The mother as well, was donning a very large Hermes© bag, as well as numerous Louis Vuitton© suitcases. There were three toddlers, that were dressed quite smartly, I might add, running around and jumping everywhere (and to Anne's disturbance, they were touching the things in the lobby. Take the big, tall potted plant, for example. It was on the verge of toppling over.) But thankfully, they did not start the panicky-screaming part yet.

Mrs. Giry saw to it that they had been booked a room before they could do any more damage to the beautiful, and radiant, lobby of the _Hotel Populaire_.

She sighed as she glanced at the clock, several hours later after the little savages had run amok throughout her lobby, and realized it was a Tuesday. The slowest day in any business, for sure. And, it was only eleven in the morning!

--

"Mr. Firmin, I believe it is your turn?" Mr. Andre had given his long friend a wave of his hand, toward the limousine that was pulling up toward the Hotel's main entrance.

Mr. Firmin could only offer his friend a smile as he opened the car door and was handed the suitcases, which he promptly put upon his cart.

The only guest this time was an old lady, far older than Firmin, however, who was quite snappy and annoying.

("_Move faster, Bell-Grandpapy_!" she had bickered at the poor Mr. Firmin, her southern accent was strong. Mr. Firmin had only grunted in response, and then dared enough to glare at her backside.)

She was wearing many, many large jewels around her neck, fingers, ears and wrist, which jangled as she bustled around.

As the old lady, who had introduced herself as 'Eloise' (but due to her bitter attitude toward the bell-boys, they gave her the rightful nickname of 'Old Lady') was ushered into the lobby, Mr. Andre and Firmin both waved to Mrs. Giry, and sent her a silent message, pointing out that the Old Lady was rather difficult to get along with. And Mrs. Giry, clearly understanding, gave the Old Lady the worst room, and told the maids to not change her bed sheets, -as well as leave out the used soap, instead of the new ones-, whom happily obliged.

--

"Carlotta!" Christine piped up, causing the young woman to jerk awake.

"What is matter, Christine?" Carlotta asked, alarmed as she shook her fiery red curls away from blocking her face, her Italian accent overpowering.

"You have a customer." Christine did her little innocent smile at Carlotta, who turned to the lady sitting in the corner of the bar by herself, apparently crying heavily over a breakup.

"You the bartender, miss?" the woman looked up at Carlotta with grey eyes, her eyeliner and mascara running down her face, causing her to look piteous.

"Ya, I'm da bartender. What you like?" Carlotta's face softened as she took in the sight of the woman. She hoped that she wouldn't end up like this woman someday. She could offer her a drink, it was past twelve now.

"A vanilla vodka on the rocks, please…" she sniffled out, then resumed to sobbing loudly into a white handkerchief, which had partially turned as grey as her eyes, due to the black makeup.

Carlotta was fast with her task, and within seconds, slid the drink towards the crying form of the woman. "Drink, This one's on the house, eh?" she muttered, waving away the thanks that the latter sputtered at her.

"You want to talk, yeah?" Carlotta folded her arms upon the counter, looking at the woman.

"I can't believe that he did this to me! Cheated! After all of these eight long years!" the woman sobbed again.

Christine smiled at the sight of Carlotta doing her job, well actually, it was definitely more than her job, and Carlotta was a bit of a psychologist nowadays. Her customers became her patients. It was a lovely sight to behold.

She herself had been humming a light tune to herself. She was the bar's part-time singer, and owned a Gift Boutique, as well as a Cosmetics Store that was only run in the Hotel.

She was happy and humbled, but would honestly rather go for a job as a full time singer, and sell her stores to the man upstairs.

Now, reader, the 'man upstairs' is not God. The 'man upstairs' is not even remotely connected to God.

The 'man upstairs' was only known as just that title: The Man Upstairs. All of the employees at the Hotel knew that this man did have a name, he just never gave it.

("I will be renting out the entire top floor, under the name of _Monsieur_.", he had muttered to Mrs. Giry, after coming in from the wretched downpour of rain, many many years ago.) Even if he wished to be called Monsieur, nobody ever called him so. The employees referred to him as 'The Man Upstairs'.

_Mrs. Giry was the only person to have actually seen his face, being the concierge. This mysterious man had avoided Firmin and Andre's curious gazes as he strode in without even a suitcase. Anne remembered how her breath had caught in her throat after seeing his face. He had a severe facial deformity, to say the least, and odd enough, the marred part of his face was paler than the other, seeming as if he had worn a mask of some sort previously over the spot. _

_Oh how she wished that he had it on right now!_

_The horrid gaping holes for a nose, the complete half of his face was twisted and scarred in every horrible way possible! Those penetrating yellow eyes were something that the Mrs. would never ever forget._

_Anne had nodded, repeated the number that had popped up upon the screen for the room, and gulped. The man paused for a moment, then spoke, "I will be giving regular rental payments, as I will be staying here much longer than an ordinary guest." He handed her a thick wad of the US Currency known as Dollar Bills._

_She quickly calculated the money and pronounced that he had just secured himself a month at the expensive hotel, upon the top suite. _

_He left without a sound; the soft dinging sound of the elevator was the only thing that made acknowledgement of his presence._

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**A/N: To Be Continued...if you review.**


	2. Nor Dread Nor Hope Attend

**Chapter 2: Nor Dread Nor Hope Attend**

**A/N: if you have not already figured out, Erik is the 'Man Upstairs'.**

**Thanks to: PhanPhictionAngel, and _Moi_ (anonymous) : **

**Enjoy!**

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Dear reader, I have a secret to tell you. You see, Raoul, Meg, Christine, Mr. Firmin, Mr. Andre, and Mrs. Giry all live in the Hotel they work at. For this, part of their total salaries are chipped off, deducting the amount of money per week for their stay. So, most of these employees have multiple jobs. It is rather saddening, really. Anyhow, getting back to the main point--

Mrs. Giry's hours were drawing to a close, and Meg came to greet her mother at the front desk of the lobby. Meg was the new night-shift concierge; she needed extra money for her soccer equipment. (She had recently been drafted to the national women's soccer team.)

"Goodbye Mom!" Meg waved her mother off as Anne departed for the elevator. Meg slid into the oh-so-comfortable sleek, black, leather chair and sighed. She had managed the entire restaurant for the entire day, and she had not had a moment to herself, never mind sit down.

Anne Giry broke into a run after her final glance at Meg, trying to catch up with Christine, who was simply jumping around in front of the elevator as she, Raoul, Carlotta, and the two Bell Boys were waiting for their ride upstairs.

She hoped dearly that her daughter would be safe.

--

It had been several hours since the group of bustling employees had left to go to their rooms, and Meg was terribly bored. It was alarming how many times she had contemplated going outside, in the pitch black darkness. (Reader, it was not really that dark. The street lights were out, shining brightly and working well, I assure you.)

Suddenly, a soft dinging sound alerted Meg, awaking her. Meg began frantically worrying about when she had even fallen asleep, even. She had not taken notice that she had closed her eyes.

"Mademoiselle?" A voice caused Meg's green eyes to move upwards to meet the face of an angel.

Technically speaking, this man could not have been an angel. After all, he was dressed in a black v-neck sweater, which exposed a white dress shirt underneath. The collar of the dress shirt was poking out from the v-neck area, and its sleeves were rolled up halfway. Meg's emerald eyes could not travel down far enough to see what he was wearing as pants or as shoes, and in that moment, she cursed the stupid excessively-large concierge desk.

Meg had hardly noted anything of his face, and now, I will take time to describe it to you. He had a well-sculpted chin and high cheekbones, alluring golden eyes (Meg was too enchanted to find this point the least bit surprising), rich, dark hair, and he was toned.

Oh God, how he was toned!

His skin was so even and smooth-looking, if only she could reach out and…--

Meg snapped out of her drooling state and cleared her throat, "How may I be of assistance to you, sir?" She smiled brightly at him, flashing her pearly whites.

He let out a chuckle, unintentionally showing off his white teeth as well, then responded to her question with an, "Erik."

She blinked, shell shocked, "Excuse me?" What on earth was an eh-rik? Oh Lord, was he a foreigner?! She didn't know any other languages except English and the occasional name for foreign foods. Meg knew that her mother knew French, and now she wanted nothing more than to have taken the lessons that her mother had pressed upon her. (Which she had promptly refused to take.)

"Erik. I wish to be called Erik, Miss." His smooth voice rumbled out, causing her to want to be engulfed in the very air around her.

"Ah--" Finally, it hit her like a speeding jet, "Oh!" she flushed light crimson, mentally thanking God that he was able to speak English, Meg wasn't one to flaunt around, blushing at everything, and getting her even embarrassed was a feat in itself. "My apologies, I am Meg." She murmured, smiling sheepishly.

"How may I help you, Erik?" The name leapt off her tongue awkwardly, causing her to scrunch up her face with an odd feeling. She let loose her bun and retied it tightly.

The man named Erik tilted his head, causing his casually tousled hair to become even more disheveled and all the more gorgeous. Meg could drool right now, if she were with her bunch of friends and if she wasn't at a work environment. "Nothing." He said simply.

"Excuse me? Nothing?" Meg squeaked at him; was it getting hot in here…? She huffed loudly, fanning herself in a vain attempt to cool down.

"Nothing. I simply came down to go outside, but I had no idea that we had a night concierge." He did another hearty laugh, his golden eyes were enchanting. "Are you allowed out?" he asked, placing his hands on the marble counter and poking his head inside her personal bubble space, (in which Meg thought he was more than welcome to intrude in) and examining if there was a way out of the cubicle-like compartment.

"Yes, there is. Why do you ask?" Meg was amused now; the man was exactly her type. Handsome and cheerful, with a bit of humor thrown in. Lovely and disastrous in itself.

"I was hoping to take you out to tea, perhaps?" he smirked bashfully, one hand shoving itself in his jean pocket.

Despite his fancy top, he was wearing jeans and black converse sneakers.

Meg was taken aback, was he asking her out? At three in the morning? "Tea? Don't New Yorkers usually drink coffee?" she raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Erik laughed, although he did not seem the least embarrassed, "Ah, yes. Well then, coffee it is." He shrugged, offering his hand.

She glanced down at the extended hand, surveying it quickly. His fingers were slender, yet calloused; he was experienced in the arts, she figured out. The callousness would be from either writing or drawing of some sort, yet the slenderness implied that he was a musician. She was impressed, in any case. "There's a way out here…" she pointed in the direction of the door that would be the gateway to freedom from the hellhole.

In a quick instant, he pulled her arm easily, which drew her to him; dangerously close to his body and her face was mere centimeters from his; they seemed to share the oxygen.

"This is the easier way, Miss." He rumbled in her ear before sweeping her off her feet (literally) and gently placing her down on the cold, marble floor on the opposite side of the desk.

She was speechless, how amazing was he?

He retrieved her scarf and knee-length coat from her chair and looked away, leaving her some peace to herself. What a gentleman. He smiled broadly at her once she had lightly tapped his shoulder, sprinning around and laughing.

Meg let herself be escorted outside after bundling up to the cold, and enjoyed the best-tasting coffee with the mere stranger named Erik, even if the coffee was from a twenty-four hour convenience store, and a bit stale, nothing mattered to Meg more than the person standing with her, laughing and joking with her until the break of dawn.

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**A/N: ehhh. I know, too many '()'s. Can you blame me? I'm trying hard to entice some humorous moments. (:**


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